She shivered while he took a set of keys from his pocket and opened the main door. The plate glass clunked shut behind them. “Over there,” Leo said. Again, using his private keys, they entered a glossy-walled elevator.
Phoebe had seen dozens of movies where lovers used a quick ride to sneak a passionate kiss. Leo clearly didn’t know the plot, because he leaned against the wall and studied the illuminated numbers as they went higher and higher. Cavallo occupied the top twelve floors.
When they arrived at their destination, Phoebe was not surprised to see all the trappings of an elite twenty-first-century business. A sleek reception area decorated for the season, secretarial cubicles, multiple managerial offices and, at the far end of the floor on which they entered, an imposing door with Leo’s name inscribed on a brass panel.
Another key, another entry. They skirted what was obviously the domain of an executive assistant and walked through one last door.
Leo stopped so suddenly, she almost ran into his back. She had a feeling he had forgotten her presence. He moved forward slowly, stopping to run a hand along the edge of what was clearly his desk. The top was completely bare, the surface polished to a high sheen.
Leo turned to her suddenly, consternation on his face. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to a leather chair and ottoman near the window. “That’s where I like to sit when I have paperwork to read through. I won’t be long.”
She did as he suggested, noting that much like his sophisticated home, his place of business, arguably the epicenter of his life, had two transparent walls. The dark, rainy night beyond the thick glass was broken up by a million pinpoints of light, markers of a city that scurried to and fro.
As she sat down and propped her feet on the ottoman, she relaxed into the soft, expensive seat that smelled of leather and Leo’s distinctive aftershave. The faint aroma made her nostalgic suddenly for the memory of curling up with him on her sofa, enjoying the Christmas tree and watching the fire.
Leo prowled, tension in the set of his shoulders. He opened drawers, shuffled papers, flicked the leaves of plants on the credenza. He seemed lost. Or at the very least confused.
Hoping to give him the semblance of privacy, she picked up a book from the small table at her elbow. It was a technical and mostly inaccessible tome about third-world economies. She read the first two paragraphs and turned up her nose. Not exactly escape reading.
Next down the pile was a news magazine. But the date was last month’s, and she was familiar with most of the stories. Finally, at the bottom, was a collection of Sunday newspapers. Someone had taken great care to stack them in reverse order. Again, they were out of date, but that same someone had extracted the “Around Town” section of the most recent one and folded it to a story whose accompanying photograph she recognized instantly. It was Leo.
Reading automatically, her stomach clenched and her breathing grew choppy. No. This had to be a mistake.
She stood up, paper in her hand, and stared at him. Disbelief, distress and anger coursed through her veins in a nauseating cocktail. “You had a heart attack?”
Leo froze but turned around to face her, his shoulders stiff and his whole body tensed as if facing an enemy. “Who told you that?”
She threw the paper at him, watching it separate and rain down on the thick pile carpet with barely a sound. “It’s right there,” she cried, clutching her arms around her waist. Prominent Atlanta Businessman Leo Cavallo, Age 36, Suffers Heart Attack. “My God, Leo. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him with an appalled groan. “You carried wood for me. And chopped down a tree. I made you drag heavy boxes from the attic. Damn it, Leo, how could you not tell me?”